The New Yorker on Jordan Spieth

There’s a nice little ditty on The New Yorker’s sports blog about Bubba and Jordan and the Masters that you should read. A taste:

Spieth’s swing is a newly paved freeway through the heartland: smooth, straight, efficient, dependable. Watson’s is the spotty two-lane through the backwater. It’s tangled and indirect, a mess of rough road that seems to surprise Watson as much as anybody when it leads to the desired location.

And:

Spieth plays with an effortlessness that is no doubt the result of great effort. He’s the Federer of golf right now: fluid motions, no sweat glands, an air of calm superiority.